


Mercy

by gigabytemon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6918784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigabytemon/pseuds/gigabytemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There are always two sides to a coin. I wanted to write about the other side for Chara. Most people blame Chara for the Genocide Route in Undertale, but the fact is that it was never really Chara that killed anyone in the Underground. Up until the player walks into the Throne Room, they could very easily abort the run entirely and go back to the start. Not a lot of people realize this because they don't actually do the Genocide themselves, they just watch it on YouTube or other sources. Either way, the Genocide is entirely the player's responsibility, and Chara just picked it up past the point of no return. As they put it at the abyss after the Genocide is complete: "It was you who pushed everything to its edge. It was you who led the world to its destruction."</p><p>I wanted to explain that perhaps Chara had a very twisted understanding of the concept of mercy, leading them to do the things they did. In the end, them destroying the world could have been a mercy too: to save it from the player. There are always two sides to a coin, and Chara is no exception. So who is the real monster: Chara, or the player?</p></blockquote>





	Mercy

_Mercy._

I was far too young to understand what that meant when I first read it. All I knew was that it somehow got easier. Things stopped making sense when I was hardly old enough to make out what they were screaming at each other. In fact, for the most part, not much made sense at all. The world was different from what I was used to, growing inside those four walls. While I thought it was okay that others had vastly differing opinions from mine, those _others_ did not seem to hold the same belief.

                That’s what they were to me. In my world, I lived in a tiny run-down shack of an apartment, regularly torn apart by two screeching _others_. When I left the confines of my room, they would mysteriously quieten. I didn’t think it as strange as the silence that would continue festering in my presence, but even then I got used to it eventually.

                _Mercy._

                It was normality. Perhaps I took after them in that regard. The _others_ at school seemed to enjoy crying at worst. My first few days there were simple, but my peers had other ideas. I was, apparently, the abnormal one. Even the teachers there thought so. Was it the hours I spent pouring over books to distract myself from the white noise of vulgar shrieking? Perhaps it was my penchant for shiny objects, or my apathy towards the sight of blood. It never seemed to worry the _others_ at home.

                By my third week in school I was already out of it. They mentioned I was bright – for what infernal purpose was I luminous? – but that I was much too dark. That contradiction puzzled me at the time, but I found it humorous how they said it regardless. The _others_ found me disturbing, as they described it. Of course, my parents didn’t understand. When we got home the screaming only carried on. I retreated to my room, content to be alone.

                That was my world.

                _Mercy._

                When I first read that word, I was puzzled as to what it could mean. It held a different meaning for each context I found it in. The books I had used them very sparingly. They did not expound on their meaning, and having been barred from at least four different schools in my district, I was left to my own devices in that regard.

                I took what was offered to me, in the pages of the tomes that passed for my personal belongings. From what I learned, mercy was for the weak. Often in those pages I found antagonists who trampled on innocents _“mercilessly”_. And then I found some charity in others when they showed evil men and women _“mercy”_. Letting someone live was a _mercy_.

                But within those pages, I also found death to be a mercy. When someone ended another – so that they wouldn’t have to suffer – that was a _mercy_. Killing someone who was in agony, and for some reason had no hope of recovering – that was a _mercy_. When one faces an antagonist and kills him – that was also a _mercy_. Somehow, when the evil is struck down and suffering was ended – that was what it was.

_Mercy._

                It did not take long. In fact, it was probably too easy. They were obviously suffering. How did I not notice it before? And yet, there I was. It was a simple act, quiet and clean. For the first time, I found the silence comforting. I sat by them and watched the darkness pool around them, content that their suffering was over. It was as if I had achieved my purpose.

                _It was a mercy._

                A few days later, I was put in an orphanage. Nobody seemed to think I did the right thing. They said that I was too young to understand what I had done. Ironically, it was them who couldn't understand. My peers chastised me, calling me names I had little care for. The ones who ran the place kept me from the others as well. They all knew what I did, whether they understood it or not. The bed was nice though, and I enjoyed my solitude regardless.

                Still, there were the few who were not like the _others_ there. The first of them shared my taste for large, dusty tomes and, consequently, elaborate plots and deliberation. We spent a few days in what could be regarded as close a proximity as our stewards would allow. One day I noticed the same books I read in their hands. So I decided to return the courtesy of reading a book they once read as well.

_Mercy._

                When I parted the papers I found a note inside. Our conversations picked up from there, limited to the secretive slips hidden among those folds. It was an ingenious idea, one that could have been cooked up only in a mind that buried itself in the worlds of mysteries and adventure. Through it, I discovered a colored and cultured world all on its own. Eventually, we thought of each other as the books we read. Slowly, deliberately, with _perseverance._

                There was also another one, with a penchant for baking. In my isolation, I felt no need to grace anyone with social niceties. This one was different, and was encouraged to keep a distance from me. Nothing could have been more of a rubbish request made to them, and they made it all the more clear that they would not bother with it when they handed me a muffin. Fresh from the oven, according to the one who made it. I burned my tongue, but their _kindness_ did not escape me.

_Mercy._

                I made my next acquaintance and friend out of the blue. They were headstrong and, admirably, reckless. They asked me if I wanted to play, despite the menacing glares our stewards gave us. That kind of _bravery_ was something I’d only read about, but it broke more ice than I would have thought myself capable.

                Perhaps it was because I was becoming lonely, and that the social contact of my first two friends made me yearn for more. Maybe it was just because I hated the _others_ for how they treated me like an outcast. Or was it because I wanted to rebel against our stewards for keeping me out of reach from the rest? I did not know, and it did not matter to me. I joined to play.

_Mercy._

                While most decided the assured wrath of our caretakers would be too much to endure for me, two felt themselves apathetic to the thought. One was obsessed with cowboys and the “wild west”. The toy gun and dulled badge meant authority to them, and as sheriff of the playground they made sure _justice_ was upheld and respected. Under their watchful gaze, I could join in the fun, and they made sure no overgrown immatures took me away for it.

                The other was a pirate, and a really good one at that. They had their own eyepatch and spoke with the classic drawl of ‘R’ sounds pirates on TV seemed to have. They had the _patience_ of a saint, though, seeing how often they had to entertain the sheriff throwing them in jail. It made me sorry to see them shuffled off in imaginary handcuffs. So one day I confided a plan to break them free with another.

_Mercy._

                It turned out more fun than I could have ever imagined. The one who was supposed to have been my partner in crime ratted me out to the sheriff. I suppose there’s something to be said for _integrity_. The skirmish that followed became something of a legend at the playground.

                Still somehow, when our stewards came out to see what all the ruckus was, our snitch stole the show. Nobody in our merry band cared for my past. The truth was that they were having fun, and this was the most fun they had ever had. Even though we were injured and had made somewhat of a mess where we were, none of us seemed to care. The _others_ laughed at us as we were marched off by the stern old hag to get cleaned and band-aided. But when we glanced at each other, we all smiled.

_Mercy._

                One day I found a book that piqued my interest. A legend of a time long forgotten, of an age of monsters and men. They warred and bled when the humans feared the monsters and doubted their sincerity. We won – obviously – because we had something the monsters did not. And so the monsters were sealed away inside the mountain that hugged our city.

                The adults talked about the mountain like a forbidden thing. Nobody climbed that mountain without disappearing. We instead used the road that had been chiseled out of it to get to the other side. I decided that I would explore the mountain on my own. Perhaps the legend would be true, and I’d find the monsters still stuck inside that massive rock. Perhaps it would just be that, a legend and nothing else. All I knew was that it would have been a suffering to live inside a tomb like that, and when I overheard one of our stewards say _“That accursed child was reading that Ebott book”_ I knew I would not be missed.

                _Mercy._

                So I left a note in the book and wandered away in the dead of the night. Perhaps it was a mistake, or maybe it wasn’t. I told my friend not to follow me, and not to worry, but in actuality I did not care. I eventually realized that I did not care about anything at all. This was just an excuse for me to escape. And so I did, as a _mercy_ to all those I left behind that could not seem to tolerate me. I found a gaping chasm in front of me, and I contemplated my friends. This world was not worth living for. I felt sorry for them, and fell.

                When I woke up, he was staring at me. He asked me for my name. Then he told me his. He brought me to his family. And I became a part of it. Somehow, they made me feel like I belonged. Not like the ones I had left, who labelled me a freak and decided I was an outcast. For once, I felt understood. Not because they understood me, but because they tried.

                _Mercy._

                I enjoyed myself. And while they found some of my pranks to be distasteful _(especially the buttercups)_ , they went along with it. I thought to myself that a family like this could not be allowed to suffer in a subterranean dungeon. So I learned what kept them there, and how to get out.

                My plan was simple. They always are. I did not tell them, of course, because it involved me dying. And so I did, and as they flustered to cure me from that darkness I told the one who found me about my last wish. To see the flowers where I came from. He obliged.

                _Mercy._

                When we reached the flowers I found myself burning inside him. While I died, I thought to myself that the _others_ would be too stupid to comprehend what was happening. That they’d think I was killed by him and, if he died, we would start another war. The only way to get more souls down there was to make them want to go there. If the prison was broken, they’d be free. If we won, they’d also be free. Whichever way things went, it would be _a mercy_.

                But, it turns out, when you’re dead nothing gets in the way of your emotions. Seeing the faces of the ones that chastised me twisted in horror and shock only fueled my hatred. I struggled long and hard with him, trying to convince that dumb child that these humans needed to die. When they started attacking him, his will against me wavered. But despite all of my _determination_ , he refused me. I hated him for it.

                _Mercy._

                I was convinced the war would begin. The king would be enraged, and the _others_ would be even more so. Someone, somewhere, was going to start it. So I gave in to him. We stumbled back into the mountain. We collapsed in a bed of flowers. His body turned into dust. I returned to mine.

                But nobody came.

                _Mercy._

                I had misjudged them. The world was different from what I was used to, growing inside those four walls. While I thought it was okay that others had vastly differing opinions from mine, the ones _these_ had infuriated me. They declared no war. The legend remained a legend. The world carried on without me.

                She took my corpse from my coffin and left for the ruins. I thought she would do what her son couldn’t. But instead she buried me, dooming me to an eternity beneath dirt. Perhaps it was because she cared for me. Perhaps she thought I would become a flower. I hated her for it.

                _Mercy._

                Then I watched my orphan friends arrive, one by one. Looking for me, even though I wrote to them not to. One by one, they met her, and one by one they delved deeper in. With each one she would weep over my grave, telling me he had killed them. With each one I expected him to break open their prison and avenge us. He never did. I hated him for it.

                I faded. Slowly, with each one. There was no use in me persisting. My _determination_ waned. Perhaps it was time to truly rest. This world was not worth living for. I made my choice long ago. And so my soul vanished. I faded.

                _Mercy._

                And then you came.

**Author's Note:**

> There are always two sides to a coin. I wanted to write about the other side for Chara. Most people blame Chara for the Genocide Route in Undertale, but the fact is that it was never really Chara that killed anyone in the Underground. Up until the player walks into the Throne Room, they could very easily abort the run entirely and go back to the start. Not a lot of people realize this because they don't actually do the Genocide themselves, they just watch it on YouTube or other sources. Either way, the Genocide is entirely the player's responsibility, and Chara just picked it up past the point of no return. As they put it at the abyss after the Genocide is complete: "It was you who pushed everything to its edge. It was you who led the world to its destruction."
> 
> I wanted to explain that perhaps Chara had a very twisted understanding of the concept of mercy, leading them to do the things they did. In the end, them destroying the world could have been a mercy too: to save it from the player. There are always two sides to a coin, and Chara is no exception. So who is the real monster: Chara, or the player?


End file.
